This is the Arium Bar. In the absence of Valentin, I am taking my afternoon coffee here. A verty modern space that also doubles as a Bond villain torture machine, if those spikes decide to descend.

It's interesting how spaces that are completely comprehendible when you enter can be rendered abstract with no effort.

I don't know what other Cancun resorts look like. I imagine they're similar in the "completely and utterly modern" way; some might go for the ancient Mayan motifs. It hasn't dated. Yet.

I woke before Wife and went off to breakfast. She wanted to sleep in, and does not regard the boons of breakfast as a reason to wake on a vacation. I was owly for some reason, probably because I was starved and got behind a waddling wall that blocked all attempts to dart around them. The omelette was good - jalapeños this time! - but the cook seemed to intrepret the request for onions as “two whole onions sliced and dampened to a limpid state.” There was bacon. I dropped a small croissant on the floor and it went off like a grenade; the line between pastry and fragmentation ordnance is thinner than I thought.

Then I claimed chairs at the pool with towels. I dislike the procedure of staking out your chair long before you get there, but if one holds to this code you’re cut out for the rest of the day. Maddening.

Wife did yoga and pilates by the pool while I read. When I moved to the beach there wasn’t a chair to be found, and I ended up spreading out on the sand - which is actually nicer, because you can flip over without reconfiguring your chaise longe. Finished a Bosch book that had the most ridiculous deus ex at the end I’d ever read. Then I walked into the ocean. I have to do that twice a year. I just do.

LATER Dinner reservations are quite late. It was either 5:30 or 9. The former is not a good idea, because then you’re done at 6:30 and the idea of wandering the village and perhaps catching the Pirate Show, again, is not as novel as it was before. I’ve been out on the balcony while Sara slept, and the night fell, and the skeeter-foggers drove past and did their nightly slaughter. Or so you hope. The evening’s entertainment was provided by a vocal couple a few rooms over, who went through every auditory cliche involved in the act. I was tempted to shout out YOUR NOTES ARE WRONG just in case it was the drunken piano woman.

Well, I hate to break this narrative at its peak, but I should start ironing.

We had dinner with a tennis player from Sara’s group. Capital fellow. I mean that in the "excellent" sense, although the other meaning works as well; he works for the IMF. He has been everywhere in the world, as far as I can tell. Except North Dakota. But he would like to, because he drives a motorbike all over the place, except when he’s going on a skiing trip or a tennis jaunt at Club Med. Could be making all of that up. But I don’t think so. It does make me wonder why I don’t fake some elaborate identity for our trips here. Perhaps because I like my identity and am proud of what I do!

Well, I used to be. Anyway. It was Mexican Night in Mexico, at night. Not bad, if you got the right thing: BEEF. Sara got something piscine and it was inedible. There were also strange empanadas which had nothing inside, and seemed to have been cooked with an industrial shirt-press. The tequila was good, though.

Up to Gravity for a nightcap. After a while another in a long series of very, very large and very drunk Canadians came over to make conversation, since his wife was sleeping and he was in a mood to make new friends. Sat down and talked exclusively about himself and how he was well off and will retire in eight months thanks to his investments, something that impressed no one. Uninteresting desperate people always lead with your money. He was a member of the Grand Palladium. Came here five times a year. Dressed like a slob. I asked what his line was.

“Paint.”

“What brand?”

“Sherwin-Williams.”

“You cover the world.”

“I cover the world.”

Well, no, they cover the world. I was tempted to ask “how’s the little Dutch boy? What happened to him? He run away?” But you never know if that’s a sore point, or if he died in an industrial accident. Anyway, he was loud and boring and I figured out a reason to extract us without much difficulty. How? You say. I’l love to know, what’s you’re secret?

“You’re loud and boring and we’re leaving now,” you say. That simple!

No, just went away for a few minutes, which would feel like half an hour in a drunk-time or maybe five seconds, then said to wife she had to get up early for tennis tomorrow.”

“I get up at 5:30 every morning,” he said. “And start checkin’ my phone.”

“That’s great, Jeff. Well, enjoy retirement.”

“I’ve earned it.”

The next day changed everything up. C'mon, man, we cannot be slaves to routine. I didn’t hit the pool, but relaxed on the sun-splashed balcony. Seriously, the photons were just sloshing around everywhere. I decided to work out before lunch, foreswear the beach for the Fizz pool, which is off the beaten paths enough so you can usually find a chair. It’s a hidden delight, really. And it has food and drink and a waterfall.

Looks great, eh?

Poking around the area I find, again, the enduring mystery of the failed developments. Streets but no homes.

Waiting for the smothering embrace of the jungle. I suppose everything is, he said with unexpected portentousness.

TOMORROW: The Fateful Conclusion